


not forever yours / not forever mine

by bizzybee



Series: Requests [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, fun fact! gay bars were actually a huge thing back in the 17th and 18th centuries, people called them "molly clubs" and people went to them, to talk about politics and have gay weddings and wear drag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizzybee/pseuds/bizzybee
Summary: Sylvain Gautier has never been one to seek out the more spiritual pleasures of life.Why should he, when there’s so much joy to be found in earthly things?
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Requests [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835620
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	not forever yours / not forever mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from Mars! Thanks for commissioning!
> 
> Title is from "Many Places 2 Call Home" by Nana Grizol

Sylvain Gautier has never been one to seek out the more spiritual pleasures of life.

Why should he, when there’s so much joy to be found in earthly things?

A tart drink or a soft breast to rest upon; those are the things that matter. 

He hasn't been able to get out to do what (and who) he really wants in recent months, but tonight, when-

"You're monologuing in your mind again." 

He looks up to see Ingrid, peering at him over their mug of beer. Sylvain takes his time throwing back a shot, just knowing that they have more to say. 

"You're supposed to be having fun," they continue, gazing around the bar.

"You know me, Ingrid." He offers them a grin. They roll their eyes. "Always waxing poetic about something or other." He pauses, a hand over his chest as he lets out a little cough. "And who's to say I'm not having fun with my favorite girl?" 

"Yes, Sylvain. Whatever you say. I'm not gonna fuck you." 

Sylvain laughs. It's fun, this game that they play. He thinks he might know Ingrid the best out of anyone, and they definitely know about ten times as much information about his life than anyone else he knows. The idea of them together is completely out of the question for a variety of reasons, the least of which being their individual preferences. 

Sylvain takes his last shot, chasing it with his own mug of beer. A rather delightful buzz is making its way through his veins, and maybe it won't be a terrible night after all. 

"Zounds, it's muggy in here," Ingrid complains, loosening their cravat. "I'm going to get more drinks." 

Sylvain watches as they stand, pushing through the crowds of nightgown-clad men and suit-clad women in the general direction of the bar. He's unsure just how Ingrid gained such a high tolerance for drink, but he can't say he minds it much. Any time he and Ingrid go out, he pretty much knows he will be absolutely piss-drunk and most likely throughly fucked by the end of the night. 

Ingrid insures the former and begrudgingly accepts the latter, but they've known each other much too long for them to take serious offense at it. 

Sylvain keeps an eye on Ingrid as they near the bar, as a rather handsome young lady places her hand on Ingrid's arm. He can tell just from the back of Ingrid's neck that their face must be bright red. 

He takes their mug of beer and starts sipping. Blast. He really was hoping he'd be the one to pull away first. 

When he glances back up, Ingrid and the mystery girl are standing with their heads close together, the next round of drinks all but forgotten. 

He can't be mad at Ingrid, truly, even as she lets herself be pulled away from the bar without a single glance back at him. It's nothing he hasn't done a hundred times over, nothing he wouldn't have done tonight if given the opportunity. 

But he can't get wasted from three shots and two watered down beers. 

He's not sure what it is tonight, but his usual routine of these outings with Ingrid isn't sounding as appealing as it normally does. If he's being frank, they haven't in awhile. Yes, he hates his parents, or the godawful cads of Gautier, as Ingrid calls them, but. There can be some beauty found in the more refined literature and music that they insist he take part in more and more these days. 

Of course, that does not in any way mean he doesn't enjoy these nights out, with the drinking and the carousing and the arms of a man whose name he will forget in the morning. 

Where was he? Ah, yes. Another drink. He stands, priding himself for not shaking on his feet. 

The bartender nods as he approaches, already starting a beer on the tap. Sylvain grins, easy and welcoming. He's enough of a regular for people to know what he wants, to know nearly every other person in this room by face if not by name. 

Everyone, that is, besides the surly looking fellow at the far end of the bar. 

He's not Sylvain's usual type, but Sylvain can't help but stare at that dark hair, those sharp cheekbones. What can he say? He's only human. 

He's rather tipsy now, anyway, and he's spotted none of the usual acquaintances he'd retire with, so he supposes it can't hurt to take his beer and pick his way through the crowd to slide up next to him, back against the bar and weight resting on his elbows. 

The man doesn't look up, just stares down at his whiskey, but Sylvain trains his eyes on the corner of his mouth that's just barely lifting up.

"I think I'd remember if I'd seen you here before. Come here often?" Sylvain asks. It's not his best, but to his surprise, the man's inhumanly sharp cheekbones color a bit. 

Nice. 

"That bit can't work often." His voice is softer, deeper than Sylvain was expecting. 

Nice. 

"Seems as though it's working on you." 

The twitch of an eyebrow. The man sips at his whiskey, then looks up. His gaze is steady, almost alarmingly so, but Sylvain's smile only widens. 

"You wouldn't know what works on me."

_ Nice.  _

"I'd like to."

The man huffs out something that might just be a laugh. Sylvain's hand finds his knee under the bar. He doesn't pull away. 

"You can call me Sylvain." He offers it like the lure it is. 

The man hesitates for a moment, legs shifting apart. "Felix." 

Sylvain moves closer, hand sliding forward to rest on the inseam of Felix's jodhpurs. "Well, Felix," he says, voice soft and sultry in a practiced way he's perfected. "Wanna head to the back?"

"These practiced lines you’re saying?" Felix prompts.

"Yeah?" 

"They’re awful. Stop using them." 

“Are you going to make me?” Sylvain’s hand inches up. 

Felix doesn’t startle, but that pink tint blossoms, deepening to a sweet cherry red that Sylvain wants to taste. 

“Bedswerver.” 

“I won’t deny it.”

“Good.”

Felix’s lips are lightly chapped and pink, and when he presses them against Sylvain's in the crowded bar, Sylvain changes his mind. 

Maybe this will be a good night, after all. 

Felix pulls away much too soon, and Sylvain knows it's been much too long by the way he chases after Felix's lips. 

"What's the problem?" Sylvain asks, hand inching ever higher. 

Felix doesn't move. "Are you normally this bold in public."

"Yes." 

"Goddess." 

"Actually, it's Sylvain."

Felix scoffs. Sylvain grins. 

He feels Felix's hand on his before he glances down and sees it, thumb resting against his knuckles. 

"Soft hands," Sylvain comments, pinky tracing along the seam of Felix's trousers.

"Yours aren't."

“Want to feel them?” 

"I am. Right now." 

Sylvain grins. "Not what I meant."

"You're a strange man." 

"That's what they say." 

"You must know I'm not going to lay with you." 

Sylvain's grin falters, then comes back full force. "And here I thought you were just playing hard to get." 

"You seem a bit too sad and selfish to be a good partner in bed." 

"Ouch." Sylvain puts his other hand over his chest, mock offense dripping into his voice. "Tell me how you really feel."

"Fine," Felix says. "I think you're an arrogant beard splitter. If I told you I was here more for the talk of politics and less for the art of merrymaking, you'd walk away in the next instant." He drums his fingers over the back of Sylvain's hand. 

And the truth is, Sylvain probably would have. But if there's one thing he's better at than seduction, it's never backing down from a challenge. 

"Well, Fe-"

"Don't call me Fe." 

"-you have yet to tell me that, don't you?"

"I'm here for talk of politics, not for merrymaking." 

"Damn."

Felix huffs. Sylvain's beginning to think that's his way of smiling. 

"I'm not walking away," Sylvain observes, hand stilling.

"You're not." Felix swallows. 

They sit in silence, the voices and crowds of the bar pushing in on them. 

"I must say, though, I'm not much one for politics," Sylvain says. "There's enough talk of that elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

Sylvain purses his lips. "There must be something else that interests you besides politics." 

Felix hesitates. He sips from his whiskey, holding the glass against his bottom lip. "No." He downs the rest of his glass. 

Sylvain chuckles. "Nothing at all? I'm starting to think maybe you just don't want to talk to me."

Felix's jaw tightens. Sylvain moves to pull his hand away, but before he can, Felix starts, fingers wrapping around Sylvain's wrist. 

"Okay," Sylvain says, shifting closer. "Or not." He pauses for a moment, watching Felix as he sits, frozen, eyes averted. "You're not going to start a conversation, huh?" 

Felix's jaw tightens as his grip releases. 

Sylvain starts to speak, then stops. By all means, he has as much a window as any to leave, to find someone new or someone he’s laid with a few times, but there’s something stopping him. Maybe it’s the way Felix seems almost shy. Maybe it’s because the alcohol is starting to hit. 

Maybe it’s none of those, just the fact that he’s not especially horny tonight. 

“So, Felix,” he says, voice casual. “You in town for long?”

“No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Hobbies?” 

“No.”

“Brothers? Sisters?” 

Felix seems to hesitate at that. “No.” 

“Damn. What do you think happens when we die?”

Felix finally looks up, eyes cold and empty. “Absolutely nothing.” 

Sylvain hums, propping his hand on his chin. “Interesting. Tell me more.” 

"How is it possible to elaborate on nothing." 

"Come on, man," Sylvain says, laughing a bit as he shrugs out his shoulders. "You gotta give me something."

Felix's brow creases, his nostrils flaring. "You- Fine. There's nothing after we die and once the mourning ends, we do too. That's it." 

Sylvain smiles. He relaxes, just a bit. "All right, Felix," he drawls. "Let's talk."

* * *

Sylvain didn't end up getting fucked that night, but he can't say he minded  _ too  _ much. 

Of course, the next day, he's roused bright and early, and it's back to the relative monotony of his everyday life. Even lately, though, the rarer and rarer still outings with Ingrid have started to feel as though they are running a familiar groove. 

It doesn't help that he has a wicked hangover all through his morning duties the next day. Frankly, he's tempted to drink again, if only to stave off the fact that he'll not have another night like that until next moon, most likely. 

It's a rather dreary sort of existence. 

Without Ingrid taking him away as often as they used to, his nights are filled with lectures and operas and all sorts of things he has to attend now that he's an adult. 

The music isn't so bad. The lectures are all full of science and crests and things that he's never taken much of an interest in, but there can be something soothing about the swell of the violins, the trill of the pianos, the harmonious blending of melodic voices. 

Sometimes he uses it to catch up on much needed sleep. Who could blame him? 

Two days later, though, and he still can't stop thinking about Felix. This wouldn't be such a problem if it weren't for his policy of never thinking about his hookups for longer than one night. 

He tells himself it doesn't matter. Felix wasn't even a hookup, in the truest sense of the word. 

It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter, because his father's voice is ringing in his ears, telling him that he has places to be. 

The third day, he’s still thinking about Felix, even as his father tells him that he’s reserved their box at the Fhirdiad Operahouse for the evening. 

At the very least, Sylvain supposes, he'll have that endless fountain of champagne. 

The carriage ride into Fhirdiad that afternoon is dull, with nothing but dead grass and sparse trees visible in the late winter air through the windows. 

He supposes he should be more appreciative of the fact that his father no longer attends events with him, citing his old age and weakening health and the fact that Sylvain can be 'his own man,' now. And while Sylvain is appreciative, his father still sits in the back of his mind, gripping the back of his neck like a vice. 

His family's box is on the upper levels, filled with plush seating, curtains, and an attendant already waiting with a bottle of champagne. Part of him is glad Ingrid never wishes to join him on these outings. There's something rather pleasant about sitting in the box alone, for once having no one to impress or fake a personality for. 

He's already loosening his cravat as he settles into his seat, accepting the flute of champagne with a smile and a thanks. The Opera House is noisy, sounds of carousing and chatter rising above even the cloud of smoke that settles lazily on the high ceiling. 

Sylvain is half a bottle of champagne in by the time half the candles are extinguished, dimming the light down to a warm glow. The dialogue in the lower seats quiets just a bit, the entire hall half-hidden. 

There's a hush as the curtains are drawn open, a single figure entering the stage. They bow, and then take a seat, and something in that movement feels familiar, somehow.

Sylvain leans forward. A single, bright light shines on the violinist, illuminating their face for all to see. They place their violin under their chin, raising their head and causing it to shine in stark contrast, shadows pooling underneath their cheekbones. 

Sylvain recognizes that face. He recognizes that man.

The violinist raises their bow, a single, melancholy chord ringing out, shaky in its precision.

\--

Sylvain supposes that one perk of being nobility that he’s never quite appreciated before now is the fact that he can, no, that he is expected, to greet anything resembling celebrity when they travel through Fhirdiad. 

He vaguely remembers the music itself being exemplary, but frankly, he was much too distracted with the beauty of the musician. 

Sylvain’s leaning against the far wall of the Green Room when he appears. 

“So,” Sylvain says, grinning. “Was I supposed to guess that you’re  _ the  _ Felix Fraldarius?”

Felix blinks, startling just a bit. His eyes narrow. “Sylvain?”

“Did you miss me?”

Felix scowls. “How are you here.” 

Sylvain points at himself. “Future Margrave Gautier.” 

Felix curses under his breath. He collapses onto one of the chairs in his room, setting his violin gently on the table and loosening his cravat. 

“Great show,” Sylvain compliments, tone practiced and dripping with sweetness. “You're certainly talented with those fingers.” 

Felix rolls his eyes. “Subtle.” 

“Who said I was going for subtlety?”

Felix mutters something that sounds almost like, “Insatiable.” 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, returning to his normal tone of voice. “Really, though. I may know shit about music theory, but you’re very talented. How long are you in town for?”

“That’s not your business,” Felix says, then pauses. “One more week. Then it’s the Empire, then Dagda.” 

“Dagda, huh?” Sylvain says. “Beautiful country.” 

Felix grunts, not looking at Sylvain as he unbuttons his coat and vest, letting the cool air hit his shirtsleeves. He sighs, slumping back. 

“Y’know, Fe-”

“I said don’t call me Fe.” 

“-that offer I made the other night?”

“What about it.” 

“Still on the table.” Sylvain shrugs nonchalantly. “If you’re interested.”

Felix snorts, finally looking up. There’s nearly five meters between them, but the room feels much too small, the air much too charged. 

Felix frowns. “Fine.” 

The next thing Sylvain knows, his back is pressed into the wall, his bottom lip is between Felix’s teeth, and his hands are pulling Felix’s hair out of that stupid, too-tight ponytail. 

Felix’s kisses are biting, urgent, and Sylvain can only try to match them, gripping Felix by the hips and pulling him closer. 

Sylvain feels… strange, though, even as Felix begins working at his buttons, cool hands on Sylvain’s warm chest. He’s usually blissfully unaware by this point, his mind taking the backseat for the next hour. 

He’s almost painfully aware of what’s going on, in a way that he isn’t used to. He can feel his thumbs dipping into the hollow above Felix’s hip bones, shivers under the feeling of Felix’s knuckles grazing his stomach, hands slipping through Sylvain’s open shirt and settling on his ribs. 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know if he likes it.

He closes his eyes tighter, squeezes Felix’s hips, slides a leg between his. He tries to forget. 

Felix pulls away. “You’re acting strange,” he says, a note of accusation in his voice. 

Sylvain grins, light and easy. “How would you know?” 

Felix rolls his eyes. He looks pretty, all disgruntled and kiss-bitten with his hair down. 

“Come on, Fe-”

“Stop calling me Fe.”

“-I’m good.” Sylvain pulls on the hem of Felix’s shirtsleeves, tugging it out of his jodhpurs. “Where were we?” 

“Sylvain.” 

Sylvain’s dying to make a comment on how the annoyance in Felix’s voice really gets him going, but he refrains. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“You know we can stop if you want to, right.”

Felix must not like the look on Sylvain’s face, because he takes a step back, leaving Sylvain’s arms empty, his head about to burst. 

“You’re really fucking odd,” Felix says, running a hand over his face and reaching up to tie his hair back again. “We’re done here.” 

Sylvain still doesn’t know why he can’t seem to speak. A single tear runs down his cheek. 

“Are you crying?” Felix asks, voice like stone. 

“Nah,” Sylvain says, voice shaky. 

Felix purses his lips. “You have a lot of shit to work out.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Preaching to the choir, Fe.”

“Don’t call me- Goddess. Never mind.”

They stand in silence. Sylvain knows he should start buttoning his shirt. He feels a little silly, hair mussed and shirt open, while Felix is back to looking pretty.

“Look,” Sylvain says, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. “Maybe I just don’t wanna mess this up.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, staying silent. 

“I don’t know,” he laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, “Would you believe me if I said no one’s ever said I can say no before?”

“Yes,” Felix says immediately.

“Yeah. Should’ve seen that one coming.” Sylvain’s fingers find his own waist, buttoning from the bottom up. 

Felix bites his lip. “You know,” he says. “I’m coming back to Fhirdiad after my shows in Dagda.” 

Sylvain cracks a smile. “Yeah?” 

“Get your shit together,” Felix says. “And we’ll see what happens when I get back.” 

“I can do that.” 

“We’ll see.” Felix huffs. “And Sylvain?” 

“Yeah, Felix?” 

“I’m going to write you letters. I expect responses.”

“I think that could be arranged.” 

And when Sylvain smiles, he thinks he finally means it. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Thanks for reading!](https://bizzybee.carrd.co/)


End file.
